


Trout

by st_aurafina



Series: The Unexpected Skillset of Harold Finch [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, F/F, Field Surgery, Fishing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 19:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14385093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_aurafina/pseuds/st_aurafina
Summary: 2. Feeding the troops





	Trout

They'd ended up at a ridiculous and luxurious lake house after a long chase. Shaw finally decided it was safe to stop running and time to assess the damage. She drove slowly down the long driveway with the lights off, and stopped short of the house. The moon was full and high, and the grounds were bathed in bright, cool light. 

Inside the car, Root lolled against the window, her shoulder wound still bleeding more heavily than Shaw would like. On the back seat, cross-legged in a way that he'd pay for later, Harold ran traces on the Samaritan teams that had pursued them. 

"Did John get clear?" Shaw said. She drew her weapon, checked it, and pushed open the car door. 

"He's reached New Jersey now," said Harold. He didn't look up from his keyboard, and his fingers moved faster than Shaw could follow. "I'll be with you in a moment; there's a satellite I'd like to reroute before I feel that we're adequately obscured from view." 

"I'm going to check the perimeter. If you see anything, duck and call me." 

"Of course," said Harold, but Shaw wasn't certain he'd understood or even absorbed her words. 

Root caught her hand as she passed. "I'll call," she said. "I might not be able to shoot, but I can still use my eyes." Shaw poked her in the middle of the forehead and Root's eyes crossed. "Ow," she said. 

"Yeah, ow," said Shaw. "You stay in the car and you keep down." 

"Don't turn on any lights," Harold called after her. "Samaritan will be alert to power fluctuations in the area…" his voice trailed off as he worked. 

As it happened, there was no power to the house at all, so no risk of fluctuations, but also no hot water or light for field surgery. By the time Shaw had cleared the house, Root was slurring her words and still bleeding onto the seat of their rental sedan. Shaw heaved her out of the car and into the pristine kitchen, which had massive, ridiculous windows overlooking the lake. Moonlight gave enough illumination for Shaw to check the bullet wound in Root's shoulder – through and through, thank goodness – but not enough to properly check her reflexes. 

Harold limped in, computer under one arm, and, from somewhere miraculous, an enormous hurricane lamp in the other. "I checked the woodpile, and there should be adequate fuel to start a fire in one of the many fireplaces here," he said. He heaved the lamp onto the counter with effort. "I won't be much use for hauling wood, I'm afraid, but the gas supply to the kitchen is full, even if the pantries are a little light on supplies. There's running water: cold, but I'm sure we can manage." 

Shaw lit the lamp, then got to work cleaning and stitching up Root's shoulder, while Harold pottered about the house. He had no problems flushing out two or three bottles of painkillers stashed all around the house. "I've seen a thing or two at parties in places like this," he told Shaw, passing her another half-empty bottle of Percocet. 

Shaw watched the way he walked, stiff and one-sided, then made him take a couple, too. He swallowed them with a distasteful expression, and went in search of the cellar. "Brandy would make this so much more palatable," he muttered to himself. 

"He's funny," said Root, loopy on opioids. She played with Shaw's hair while Shaw pressed fingers to her neck, checking her pulse. "You're funny, too, sweetie." She trailed a finger down Shaw's face, and traced her lips. "My funny Shaw.' 

"Hilarious," said Shaw, and slipped in a puddle of blood. "Where the hell is this coming from?" 

It turned out to be coming from Shaw's hip. Not through and through, but it wasn't deep and if she sat on a kitchen chair with one leg propped on the counter, and if the world's highest scrub nurse could stop playing with the inseam of Shaw's jeans, Shaw might be able to wiggle the round out. 

"Hey, Harold!" she shouted into the cavernous house. "Any chance you found that brandy? Or, you know, anything vaguely volatile?" She batted at Root's hands as they reached for the band of her underwear. "Now is so not the time, woman." 

"Indeed I did," said Harold, walking back into the kitchen with several bottles tucked under his arm and an open smile that said he was somewhat under the influence, too. He stopped dead at the sight of Root crouched between Shaw's legs, her hands everywhere. "Oh, my, I'm so terribly…" 

"This is surgery not sex, Harold! Just give me the damn bottle," Shaw snapped.

Harold unloaded the bottles one after the other onto the counter, and vanished in a hurry, much more nimble than usual thanks to the Percocet. Root giggled to herself, and pulled out a stopper. Shaw took the bottle from her before she could take a swig. 

"Surgery first; brandy later," she said. "Pass me those forceps and please, please stop touching me there." 

The bullet came out fairly easily after that. Shaw went looking for a bathroom to run a tub full of cold water to clean them both up. Then, braced by the cold water, she let Root drag her to a bedroom where she indulged in a frantic grapple, buzzing with alcohol and painkillers and the faint taste of brandy in Root's mouth. 

When things had calmed down a little, and the blood no longer thumped so hard in Shaw's head that she thought she was going to pass out, she dressed the two of them in the kind of warm, woollen clothes that rich people kept in their lake houses. 

"We look like catalogue models," said Root. She slung a cream coloured cardigan around her shoulders and buttoned the top of it primly. "You should wear pearls. Me too. And Harold – let's take Harold some pearls." 

Shaw threw on an oversized black fisherman's sweater, and stomped towards the stairs. "Let's go find some food," she said. 

Downstairs, the air was redolent with the smell of white wine and herbs. Harold, in shirtsleeves, had draped an apron around his waist and by the light of the hurricane lamp, fried fish in a skillet. 

Shaw's mouth watered. It smelled amazing, so good she wanted to rip into it raw. "I thought you said we were light on supplies?" she said, sidling up to him to look in the skillet. 

There were three whole trout in the pan, neatly cleaned and scaled, stuffed with greenery that Shaw didn't know the name of, but desperately wanted to eat. 

Harold pushed her gently away with the end of his spatula. "You ladies seemed busy," he said delicately. "And yes, there was little in the way of fresh food, but –" he gestured towards the great planes of glass and the lake that they framed. "It's a full moon. The trout were jumping. And there's wild dill on the shoreline." 

"You caught these fish?" Shaw said, amazed. "You. Went out there and caught fish. Cleaned them, and everything?" She tried to imagine it: Harold out there, with a line, hooking fish one after the other like some country kid with bare feet and a straw hat. 

Root giggled. "Harold's the best at phishing." Shaw scowled, angry because she got the pun. She blamed proximity to tech-heads.

Harold, high on Percocet and brandy, said nothing, but flipped each fish in sequence with a neat gesture. The trout sizzled in the pan, and even Root made a noise of hungry desire. Shaw decided she didn't care where they'd come from, and went to find some plates.


End file.
